


Kō

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Comedy, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to Episode 1x12.  Christmas Day, pancakes, an arms haul, and a first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kō

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by dogeared

It's noon when Steve raps his knuckles on Danny's front door. There's silence for a moment, then the creak of the sofa, the scuff of Danny's boots – he wasn't sleeping, and the TV isn't on, and while he could have been reading, Steve's going to bet he was sitting on the couch, staring into space. The door opens and Danny stands there, still in his Santa pants and white tee, looking Steve over from head to toe before he gestures expansively and walks back to the couch.

"You look like shit," Steve says conversationally, shutting the door, setting the sack of groceries he's carrying down on the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, well." Danny shrugs one shoulder, stares out the window, chewing on his bottom lip.

"She leave okay?"

"10am, bright and early," Danny offers a little bitterly. He blows out a breath and leans forward, scrubs his hands over his face. "My life is shit."

Steve pauses in pulling eggs and milk, flour and syrup out of the sack. "How'd you figure?"

"How'd I figure?" Danny asks, laughing mirthlessly. "How'd I – " He stands up. "Let's review, shall we? My daughter," he points to himself with both hands, "my little girl, the light of my life, the whole reason I came to this godforsaken island is, right now, on a flight to Los Angeles," his hands swoop, "where she'll be spending the rest of the holidays with Step-Stan's extended family in _Malibu_." His hands provide somewhat obscene punctuation. "I, on the other hand, am still here. I am dressed like Santa for a kid who, against all tenets of parenting, I kept up until _two a.m._ just to extend the amount of time we could spend together because my ex-wife, God bless her soul, _had a flight to catch_." He runs his hands through his hair. "All this after a regular day at the office, where my buddy gets collared by a _fucking bomb_. A bomb! This never happened in Jersey! I had your regular everyday shootings," he ticks them off on the fingers of his left hand, "your murders, your larceny, your theft, your assault. Sure, I had some real creative son-of-bitches who thought carving up people one after another was just peachy fun, but I never, never, _never_ , you hear me, never had a friend _collared by explosives_." He stops, sets his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks back out the window. "And I've had some time to reflect, to think about my behavior, to come to the conclusion that I was a jackass to Kamekona the day before last, don't – " he holds up a hand as if Steve was thinking of interrupting him, "just don't, okay, don't even . . . point is, I didn't care, because I was feeling put out, put upon, unhappy, aggrieved – which, what, did _I_ have a collar bomb round my neck at any point in the last week? No I did not. I just had a daughter who I saw for fifteen seconds, and who's gone, and now I have you. Merry fucking Christmas, Daniel."

Steve wants to do something that'll change the look on Danny's face – the urge to play his hand is so strong that he has to duck his head, force himself to read the state of origin on the bag of slightly defrosted blueberries he's unpacked. "Go shower," he says. It's a stop-gap, and that's good enough.

"Shower," Danny repeats.

Steve looks up. "You look like shit."

"I believe you told me that already."

"Yeah, well, do something about it. And find some real pants."

Danny raises his eyebrows and blinks, wets his lips and scratches the back of his neck. "Pants," he says, turning to head toward the bathroom. "Well, we all know pants are very important to you."

Steve smiles, a little relieved, and starts his search for a frying pan. Even Danny has to have one somewhere in the place.

* * *

When Danny reappears, hair damp, face and neck pink from hot water, respectably dressed in sweatpants and a tee, he looks a little more human. "I've considered my options, and I would like to start over," he says, accepting the cup of coffee Steve offers him. "Good morning, how are you, Merry Christmas, etc. and . . ." He stops, looks at the cup. "You made coffee?"

"I did."

"I have coffee?"

Steve gestures with a spatula toward the bag of fresh-ground Kona on the counter. "You do now."

Danny's frown deepens as he peers at the plate Steve's piled high with the work of the last fifteen minutes. "Are those pancakes?"

Steve throws him one of his best _you're an idiot_ looks. "Excellent detective work."

"Bite me." Danny reaches for the top of the stack, gets his hand smacked for the trouble, says "OW" with rather more dramatic flair than necessary, and makes a second grab. "C'monnn. What, you were making a centerpiece? Modern art? What the fuck, McGarrett, those things are for eating."

Steve gestures with the spatula in a fashion he hopes suggests he's killed with less, and patiently scoops several pancakes onto a new plate. He sets the plate down on the counter, places the syrup next to it, and offers Danny a fork.

Danny, who seems bewildered, or mesmerized, or both, accepts. "You learn pancakes in boy scouts?" he asks, picking up the plate and hungrily working a multi-layered bite from the stack. "Camp out in the jungle and whip up eggs benedict come morning?"

"Yeah," Steve says, deadpan. "And then we practiced ballet." Danny raises both eyebrows, and Steve rolls his eyes. "Any good?"

"The ballet?"

"The _pancakes_."

Danny swallows. "They are more than passable." He works off another bite. "I'd go as far as to say good. Better than average. Fuck, who am I kidding? It's breakfast, there are blueberries. I'm sold." He shoves more into his mouth.

Steve smiles.

"So, I have a question," Danny asks, swallowing before he continues. "Is this your idea of wooing?"

Steve has training to fall back on – betray no reaction, gather intel, assess the risk. He turns his head, his own pancake plate in his hand, and plays for time. "Wooing?"

"Yeah, you know, to woo, to seduce, to pass a note that says – do you like me, check yes or no." Danny gestures, pancakes tipping precariously. "I'm just asking."

Steve eats a bite of pancake. "Wooing?" he repeats. "You woo?"

"In my time, I have wooed," Danny says, nodding. "I have been known to master the woo, to make wooing my bitch, as it were."

"And now you think I'm wooing you," Steve offers.

"You come over, you listen to me rant, you make pancakes, you probably have plans to do the dishes. I have been the target of less successful wooing attempts, let me tell you." Danny gestures at the kitchen, which is slightly the worse for wear thanks to an excess of flour. "There was once a girl, she had tickets to . . . which isn't important, I should be fair, it was a fun time, Mr. Jonathan Bon Jovi sang well that evening, I was impressed with his vocal stylings, also the acts of levitation performed by his hair. I was less impressed with the way said young lady tried to work her hand into my pants during Dead or Alive which, I think we can agree, is not the moment to make a move."

"I . . ." Steve's brain is stuck on the part where there are hands in Danny's pants. "No."

"Which brings me back to you, and whether this is, in fact, Steve McGarrett's move. Not a generic move, I'll grant you – I doubt there are many people who would respond quite as positively to being ordered to shower and provided with pancakes, but knowing me as you do, I think this was possibly designed so that you could explore the contents of my pants, just like the young lady in Hoboken in 1991, with whom you share a fascination for tattoos, although yours, I admit, are more tasteful."

Steve closes one eye, because the world is spinning just a little, and his cover seems to be blown, which requires some alteration to his original plan. Plans B and C, like A, rested on the presumption that Danny wouldn't recognize his actions for what they were until he was, in each respective situation, prone and/or naked, but okay, he's adaptable, even if this means switching to a plan he's not yet created. "Um . . "

Danny sets down his plate, closes in so that he's a hair's breadth away from where Steve's standing. "Here's how I see it. Your Navy people, they trained you real well in the arts of the full body tackle, the take down, the pistol whip, the sharp-shooting, the running up mountains, what have you. I've googled a little – I'm led to believe you have an impressive ability to hold your breath underwater, and that you can do things with parachutes that boggle the imagination. But what they _didn't_ provide you with – and this is a shame, really, truly, an honest to god shame – is a working knowledge of how a guy from Jersey, like me, can probably, possibly, potentially see through your breakfast machinations straight to the wooing beyond, and how I might derail your subtle hey, hey, hey," he bobs his head side to side, "McGarrettisms by asking, you want a piece of this?"

"I have no idea why I would," Steve says. He feels a little pissed to be so transparent.

"Now that, right there, is a lie," Danny says blithely.

Steve blows out a breath. "This is not – you can't just . . ."

"But I did, and here I am, and I'm saying, you want to do something about it, or maybe clean my house a little? I got a toothbrush and some grout that needs attending to if that's your inclination."

There was supposed to be talking – Steve had psyched himself up for it, thought up a series of questions he could ask, ground rules they could lay down, key points of agreement they should probably reach because they worked together, every day, and it was prudent to act with full understanding of all potential consequences and an exit strategy in place. "You are so fucking annoying," he manages.

"Oh, why, because _I'm_ the one who never follows protocol?" Danny asks. "It feels like shit, doesn't it? You see why there are rules? I, as the woo-ee here, should have let you continue to woo, I recognize that. But instead I broke established patterns of social interaction to say hey, McGarrett, I believe we should take this to the bedroom, because this shit has been going on for far too long and it's Christmas Day, the day of Christmas! And you and I are, demonstrably, utterly fucked in the head – evidence; you are here, I let you in, we are _the person the other person turns to_ , and I would like to do things to your body that are inappropriate in several of the countries where I believe you have engaged in operations of dubious legality. That, my friend, is called fucking over _your_ idea of due process."

"Would you _shut the fuck up_?" Steve asks, and his plate clatters to the counter; he manhandles Danny up against the refrigerator and leans in, breathing hard. Danny just grins at him like a lunatic, says, "Okay, this is more like it," and Steve swears he's going to kill him if he doesn't fuck him first. It's Steve who starts the kiss, but it's Danny who makes it, who pulls Steve's shirt out of his jeans, slides his hands up Steve's back, who licks and pulls and uses his teeth until Steve's hard and aching and more-or-less preverbal, and precisely none of this is going the way he thought it would. "Bed," he grits out.

"I got one of those." Danny grazes his teeth across the hollow of Steve's throat.

Steve grunts, his hips flexing, and he screws his eyes closed. "Don't make me carry you. And I _will_ carry you."

Danny laughs, ducks out from under him, walks off toward the bedroom as cocksure as ever, stripping off his t-shirt as he goes so that Steve's left looking at the play of muscles across his back. "I thought you SEALS had great reflexes," Danny calls, disappearing from view, and yeah, that's a point, he should be leading, not working the six, and he toes out of his boots, strips off his shirt, whips his belt from his pants and leaves everything strewn across Danny's living room before he follows. Danny's already naked, sprawled on his back with his hands behind his head. His cock's flushed and hard, and it bobs as Steve looks his fill.

"I'm a pretty sure thing," Danny offers as Steve skins out of his pants. "Any time you want to catch up . . ." He wets his lips, gaze skittering down Steve's body, resting at his cock. "You're killing me here."

"Yeah?" Steve crawls onto the bed, settles above Danny on his elbows and knees, cups Danny's wrists with his hands, exerting just enough pressure to suggest that Danny should stay put. "How about this. How about you don't get your way the whole time?" And he bends his head, kisses Danny sweet and slow, shivers hard when Danny groans into his mouth, when Danny lifts his head, tries to speed things up. "Nuh-uh," Steve whispers, swiping his tongue over Danny's bottom lip. "Patience. Virtue. You're about to learn it."

Danny huffs a breath. "So says Captain Leap Before You Look?"

Steve smiles slowly, glances down the length of Danny's body. "I'm looking now."

"Jesus. That's a line," Danny closes his eyes, fingers flexing. "Tell me you got better lines. I didn't peg you for a cocktease, McGarrett."

"I thought you said you'd googled?"

Danny laughs, hiccoughing the sound. "Oh yeah? You got testimonies? You sell your secrets on HSN?"

"QVC," Steve counters, and rolls to his side, pulls Danny with him so that they're tangled up, thigh sliding against thigh, skin growing sticky as their cocks brush.

Danny breathes heavily, slides hand to the back of Steve's neck. "Patience," he says, grazing Steve's mouth with his own. "You. Really."

"Hmmm," Steve offers, because he's far more interested in the dip of Danny's collarbone, in the bump of his spine and the sensitive skin at the small of his back. They can talk, or Danny can keep doing what he's doing, fingers grazing the crease of Steve's ass, mouth on Steve's neck, cock dragging hard and wet against Steve's stomach, body shifting and jumping beneath Steve's hands. His breath keeps catching; when they kiss he makes soft, needy sounds that suggest he's ready, that he's more than willing, and when they drag themselves apart it's for exactly the space of time it takes to find lube and a condom, for Danny to roll onto his back and pull Steve down on top of him, for Steve to wet his fingers and start working Danny loose.

"Jesus," Danny says, panting softly, palming his own cock. "You got all day? That your plan, to stay like this until I fuck _myself_ on your . . ." His breath skitters as Steve pulls back slowly, and he grunts, eyes falling closed, when Steve thrusts slowly in. "Yeah. Yeah, that's . . ." he murmurs, his hand picking up speed, matching Steve's rhythm, and Steve can barely stand it, the look of him spread out beneath him, cock slick between his fingers, chest flushed and damp with sweat.

"You want this," Steve says, and Danny hears it for the question that it is, says, "Shit, you are so deranged," and "what was your clue?" and " _yes_ I want this – " like he's going to keep talking through the whole thing, like he intends for Steve to come with his voice the sharp-edged accompaniment. But it turns out he gets quiet – his body arches beneath Steve's hands, his skin hot and breath quick. When he comes he's silent, biting his lip, spilling over his own hand as his body contracts, and it's Steve who curses, who says, "Danny, yeah, god . . ." and who spasms gracelessly, wrecked and noisy, no defenses left at all.

* * *

They're cleaned up and half asleep when Steve's phone rings, causing Danny to mumble, "No, no, fuck my life," and drag pillows over his head. Steve snaps to attention and fishes the phone out of his pants.

"Bust down at the docks," Chin tells him. "Shipping container full of arms, and Michael Decker's dead."

"Decker?"

Danny moans from beneath his pillows.

"I think you gotta get down here, boss. Something big's going down – the hardware alone . . ."

"I'll get Danny. Call Kono. Tell her –"

"I'm on it."

Steve ends the call, pulls the pillows off Danny's head. "Decker. C'mon."

"You have got to be shitting me!" Danny says, rolling onto his back. "This is your idea of afterglow?"

"It's _Decker_ ," Steve repeats. "You know we can't – "

"Is he dead?"

"Yeah."

"SO HE CAN WAIT, JESUS." Danny sits up and tries to tame his hair.

Steve pulls on his pants. "Jesus' birthday's over," he explains patiently. "It's time for us to go catch the bad guys."

"I wasn't done celebrating. Or eating my pancakes. Or, I don't know, _fucking_." He eyes Steve. "You really do go commando. I suspected as much."

Steve stares him down. "Focus."

"Believe me, I have been focused for a very long time."

"So focus a little longer, and maybe we can get back here at a reasonable hour, with time for – whatever it is you get the munchies for afterwards and opportunity to . . ." Steve can't finish that sentence, heads into the living room to find his shirt.

"I would like to establish, for the record," Danny calls after him, "that when you came over here so that I would not be alone on Christmas I was happy to _not_ be alone _in your company_ , and not that of the general Honolulu Police Department."

Steve walks back to the bedroom, finds Danny pulling on pants. "You go commando too?"

Danny holds up his hand. "For you, for speed, for Christmas, yes, I am going commando, but in general? I'm a man who enjoys his shorts. I find that the chafing is less when . . . " He blows out a breath and looks up at the ceiling. "Can I remind you of where things began today? My life is shit! This is my life! My life is not happening in that bed, it's happening in these pants, without shorts, at a dock, on _Christmas Day_. That is the very textbook definition of shit!"

Steve crosses the room, chases a kiss into Danny's mouth, pulls back only when they're both breathing hard. "We'll come back," he says, holding Danny's gaze.

"Is that a promise?" Danny asks evenly.

"Yeah."

"And will you make more pancakes?"

"Sure."

Danny reaches into his closet for a shirt. "The things I do for you, McGarrett."

Steve grins, and rocks back on his heels. "Yeah," he says, but he doesn't hurry Danny through his choice of tie.


End file.
